


"And so leaves the first king."

by blissey



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Achievement Hunter Kings, i wrote this in 2013 and forgot about it until now lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 01:52:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9576959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blissey/pseuds/blissey
Summary: It was dark outside, a sort of pitch-black atmosphere. It was raining before, and a low cover of mist lay across the land. The castle was silent; the only sound the panted breathing of a drunkard.(originally written in spring 2013 and posted to wattpad)





	

**Author's Note:**

> i came across this while editing the final chapter of your skin is sugar

It was dark outside, a sort of pitch-black atmosphere. It was raining before, and a low cover of mist lay across the land. The castle was silent; the only sound the panted breathing of a drunkard.

The King lay slumped against a wall, his furs and chains snagging a tapestry. The tapestry was a beautiful affair, although the King was too haggard to even realize how precious it was. The piece was a portrait of the royal family, each of the nobles embroidered in an elegant flattering fashion. The queen had flowers spilling from her arms and hair, and her princess caught them, a smile impossibly fashioned onto her face. The artist had captured the royals perfectly, down to the solemn King atop a pile of sacrificial warrior bones below his frolicking family.

The King slouched lower, pulling a thread from the tapestry; the King had ruined what was once beautiful. However, the tapestry was a lie; his family had long since died. It should be their bones he was perched atop, for it was his blunder that was their downfall. Hence, the King was damned into a pit of self-loathing and liquor, but the King was a fool at swimming: he was destined to drown.

And drowning he was, in a pool of his own failure. The King reached for his goblet, the smoking concoction it held surely fatal – to a mortal, at least.

Slow sobs arose with the weak sloshing of his potion; the King hated himself so dearly, for he was his own worst enemy – he wished fatality upon himself. Alas, the King could not be so easily disposed of. He drank away his century old grief, and then threw the goblet across the corridor. The ornate cup shattered, the shards catching the light from a lone torch, the only illuminating factor in the hall.

“My king,” a hauntingly deep voice taunted, a smirking subtext digging into the King’s ribs. “Are you alright?”

“You know the answer,” the King struggled to his feet, “Haywood.” The name was spat out, a cursed connotation.

“My king, was that spite I detected?”

The King was propped on his weapon, a shimmering diamond pickaxe; the weapon he had seized the throne with. “Only you know the answer to that, for you are the embodiment of spite and malice.”

“Your bitter words bring me great sadness, but also humour. It is a marker that our drunkard king had finally fallen. You have never made less sense, old man.”

“I am,” the King let out a rattled cough, “as young as my daughter.”

“Daughter?” Haywood laughed, “You have never had a daughter, madman.”

The King’s eyes widened in confusion, “I-“

Haywood did not allow the King to finish, with a swift swipe, the King was knocked to the ground and Haywood stood before him, the smirking undertones more concrete. The end of Haywood’s sword had rammed into the King’s jaw, his white bone was visible through the torn skin. “You are frail, my King. A blunt blow had ripped your jaw apart.”

“I am frail in no sense of the word. However, you are weak.”

“Me?” A wickedly twisted laugh exploded from Haywood’s lips, “weak? I can end you, old man.”

The King looked up, the glint in his eye final and thrilling. “Then do so.”

“It is your own death wish, my liege.” With that, the King was beat down and down again, blows thrown to his skull, his ribs, until the King lay in a pool of his blood and the strange alcohol he had downed earlier.

“Had it been my crown instead of you, the kingdom would be prosperous and joyous. You have failed as our ruler.” Haywood growled, malice crawling from his throat. “I wish nothing but death upon you. How did you win, even? You are a flimsy warrior, a sickly trickster. I am superior in every meaning of the word.”

He kicked the King’s body, his boot snagging in one of the royal sashes the King wore. Haywood did not hesitate to rip the fabric apart.

“A true scion of the Ramsey name . . . “ Haywood stood victorious, his sword planted near the King’s nonmoving head. “The first to draw blood and the first son crowned.”

The King pushed himself up; his jagged shoulders tenting his shawl, for his furs had been thrown off brutally at the beginning of the sparring.

Haywood was now mocking the fallen King, his frown condescending and patronizing. “Dominus princepsque omnium regum,” he trailed off, looking down at the defeated ruler.

The King managed to raise one knee; he stood venerable in a crouched stance.

“Yet despite all your pretty titles, still just a mortal drunkard.” Haywood threw back his head and laughed, a testament to his madness. “I’m just a little disappointed.”

The madman grabbed the King’s scalp and yanked up his head, staring him straight in the eyes. The King was emotionless, nearing death, whilst Haywood had a grin inked onto his features. “King Geoff.”

The King’s birth name was uttered in the darkest of corridors, in the midst of the night. The sound echoed through the hall and carried through the castle, reverberating down each twist and turn. His name was drowned out only by the sickening sound of a blade, the madman’s, to be precise, stabbing into the King’s chest, sliding softly into his ribcage.

Geoff Ramsey slouched, a blade emerging from both sides of his torso. He had fallen to his death, his demise.

“The old king is dead.” The madman snickered freely.

The King sighed.

“Long live the king.”

The King brought a trembling hand to his chest, wrapping his bloodied fingers around the blade protruding there.

“Still clinging to life?” Haywood inquired, intrigued.

The King’s grip tightened; he could feel the blade cutting into his fingers. In one swift movement, the King pulled the sword out of his torso. The dim lighting of the hall gave him a skeletal silhouette; the madman could see a dead man rising before him – a mass of bones and fabric writhing.

“What are you?” The madman was horrified.

King Geoff chuckled grimly, his skinless jaws clattering. “A drunkard? Naturally. Mortal? I am so sorry to disappoint, Vagabond.”

Haywood sucked in a breath; the king had transformed into bones – bones and an empty conscious.

“Take the crown if you wish,” the King extended his skeletal hand for the madman’s throat. “But heed my warning, King Haywood.”

In a gaunt clicking of movement, the spired gold crown was whipped off of the former King’s head and placed crookedly on Haywood’s scalp.

“Blood begets blood, and the crown sings for it.”

Haywood gulped. 

“Can you resist?”

And so enters the Mad King.


End file.
